


Familiarity

by thedevilchicken



Category: GoldenEye (1995)
Genre: First Time, Injury, M/M, Missions, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-17
Updated: 2002-12-17
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4234347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission in Hong Kong goes a little awry. Bond's saviour seems familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiarity

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal on 17 December 2002.
> 
> Assumes that 006 joined MI6 before 007, and that agents go through an evaluation period.

When the first shot rang out, James found himself with the distinct impression that his particular brand of mindless optimism, which had so far brought him a fair way in life, wasn’t going to see him through this without a little outside interference. 

Twenty-eight years old with a barely suppressible Scottish accent, Bond had only recently been raised from the ranks of Her Majesty’s Navy, so to speak, and introduced to life with MI6. Already some fifteen or more agents had stopped him in the corridors of the vast London HQ and regaled him with stories of the grandeur of life in international espionage; he was then beginning to wonder if the two months he currently had under his belt would be his lot, before he got to see any of that grandeur. 

A bullet punched through his shoulder and ricocheted against the wall behind him. He’d never been shot before and it was a curious feeling; he clamped his empty gun hand over the spot on some sort of reflex and winced, noting the blood that was already seeping through the sleeve of his expensive company-bought suit. He caught himself wondering if he’d be billed for it – he was still only there on trial after all - then shook his head. Considering the situation, the semi-automatic machine gun fire ought to have been a rather more pressing concern than his tailor’s bill. 

The street was dark except for the little pools of light thrown off by the handful of faulty, flickering neon signs scattered haphazardly above the shops and the sporadic flash from the muzzles of the machine guns. There were at least two but the shooters kept shifting position, making it hard to gauge with any accuracy. It was also raining, and James’ still militarily styled hair was slicked down against his scalp, his expensive and now ruined suit clinging awkwardly to his skin. 

The pavement glistened at his feet with rainwater and blood; James eyed it darkly and sighed, pressing himself as flat as possible against the wall of the cheap strip club behind him, wondering how exactly he’d managed to get himself into this astounding mess. A new MI6 agent with his PPK lost somewhere in the gutter, pinned down by machine gun fire in a Hong Kong back alley on what was only his second official mission. It was exactly as bad as it sounded. M would have his balls in a vice over this. Presuming he made it out alive. 

Which, of course, he did. 

A flash of gunfire, a pair of muffled screams and there was a sudden deafening silence. It was over. The last thing he saw as he promptly passed out was a flash of wet blonde hair and the smirking mouth of an amused fellow Brit. 

***

It was the pain in his arm that finally woke him. His eyes flickered open and blurrily spied the glowing red figures of a digital alarm clock telling him that it was 2:17am; either he’d been unconscious for exactly twenty-three minutes or he’d been out in one way or another for just over twenty-four hours. Judging by the wet clothing and the blood soaking into the pillow it was probably just twenty-three minutes, even if it felt like a day. 

He prodded his shoulder experimentally then wished he hadn’t; the gunshot wound he was hoping that he’d dreamt burned enthusiastically at his touch and he bit his cheek to keep from groaning out loud. It didn’t work. The groan was still very audible. 

Then his stomach twitched. Or, rather, something _on_ his stomach twitched. He craned his aching neck and looked down; there was a pair of pale and distinctly masculine hands unbuttoning his shirt. He frowned and opened his mouth to say something, anything, but then the tips of the fingers of those distinctly masculine hands brushed over the muscles of James’ abdomen and he forgot what he’d meant to say. 

He glanced over at the bedside cabinet, next to the clock. The bright red digits cast an eerie red glow over the handgrip of the PPK sitting beside it. He reached out, groping toward it, but it was over to his left and of course it obviously would have to be his left shoulder that was currently suffering pain that felt soothingly akin to being hacked at with a pickaxe. He groaned again, louder this time. 

The owner of the hands tutted loudly. James looked up. It was the same blonde he’d seen in the alley, complete with amused smirk. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure he really needed the PPK. 

The hands grazed over his stomach, pushing his shirt and jacket away from his torso. He felt a strong arm slide under his back and he struggled to sit up, the arm rather more of a help than he would’ve liked to admit. The hands carefully slid the ruined clothing back over his shoulders and off down his arms, discarding them over the edge of the bed. 

The blonde stood a bowl of water on the cabinet by the bed and dipped a cloth into it, sitting down beside him on the bed. The look in his eyes told James it was going to hurt and so he nodded, wincing as the material was pressed to the raw wound, cleaning away the blood. He lay back and screwed his eyes shut, letting the stranger get on and dress the wound, which he did with considerable efficiency. 

Then it was over and James felt the spring of the mattress as the stranger shifted on the bed. He opened his eyes, not that he needed to see to know that he was straddling his thighs, fingers making light work of unbuttoning his rain-dampened trousers. He looked up with a frown but the blonde just smirked back down at him and the look on his face tightened something in James’ stomach just close enough to the pleasurable side of anxiety that he allowed him to continue. 

Thirty seconds later his trousers joined his ruined jacket and shirt on the faintly bloodstained carpet. The man moved and James sighed but then he realised what he was doing; he’d stood up to rid himself of what James had just started to consider to be entirely too much clothing. It wasn’t exactly a difficult sight to see, the strong, lean blonde stripping out of his suit, inch after tantalising inch of tanned, muscular body revealed from beneath the expensive linen which he carelessly tossed onto the floor with James’ own. 

James’ eyes strayed. He’d tried to concentrate on the man’s face, on a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that told him they’d met somewhere before. But evidently his resolve had been debilitated considerably by the shock of the gunshot wound because he couldn’t keep his eyes off his chest. Dusky pink nipples stood out against the stark white skin, muscles moving languidly beneath the surface, pushing away the pristine white shirt. Then he dropped his trousers and an instant later he was naked, James’ eyes round as saucers staring at the thick, hard cock that his disrobing revealed. 

He only had one good arm, but that didn’t stop James from having a good go at divesting himself of his briefs. It didn’t work, however, and the smirking blonde batted his hand away, hooked his forefingers into the waistband and pulled them off in one smooth motion, tossing them onto the ever-growing pile by the bed. 

James bit down on his already sore cheek as he looked up at the strangely familiar man and waited. He crawled back onto the bed and back astride James’ legs, resting his hands on his own leanly muscled thighs as he looked down at the injured but still curiously eager fellow under him. Actually, if you’d asked James how he’d hurt his shoulder at that precise moment, he probably wouldn’t have had a clue what you were talking about. He was too busy concentrating on the man above him, and the sinful way their cocks were bumping together just ever so slightly. 

It was a phenomenon that James had never understood, but lubricant in bedside cabinets seemed to be standard, as if hotel guests had nothing better to do than check in then immediately unload all of their kinky sex aids into the drawer closest to the bed. Yes, so all he saw as the blonde leant over and tugged the drawer open was a tube of lube, a Gideon Bible and a packet of humbugs, but he stuck by his sex aid theory. Especially considering what the now-flushed blonde was currently doing with the lube – James was rather sure that it was the single most erotic thing he’d seen in his entire life, lying there watching an almost anonymous stranger kneeling over him, fucking himself with his own fingers, head thrown back, moaning like a whore. 

Then his head snapped forward and suddenly they were staring each other in the eye. He had green eyes, James noticed, and his pupils were so dilated that he had to wonder how the glowing figures of the digital clock weren’t currently burning themselves into his retinas and rendering him blind as the proverbial bat. But the blonde’s next movement blew every last thought from James’ brain; he reached forward and stroked James’ hard cock with his lubricant-covered hand, sending delightful little jolts right up his spine till he was shuddering almost uncontrollably. 

One swift movement and James’ logical brain shut itself down completely. If he’d been able to keep his eyes open for more than a split second at a time, he might have seen the blonde rise up and impale himself soundly on his cock, then proceed to ride it slowly while James just lay back and enjoyed the ride. 

It didn’t take long. Apparently neither of them had been having much luck with the ladies just lately because quite soon after James reached out to stroke at his unexpected lover, both men found themselves coming hard and fast. James gasped. The blonde fairly collapsed on top of him, somehow mindful of his injured shoulder even through the haze of his post-coital exhaustion. He ran his fingertips absently over James’ flat stomach in tiny soothing circles, then James felt a strange compulsion to tangle his fingers in the man’s hair and pull him in for a particularly bruising kiss. So he did. The blonde didn’t complain. In fact, he returned the kiss wholeheartedly, grasping James’ neck and good shoulder and biting down on James’ bottom lip. When they came up for air, both sets of eyes were sparkling. 

Still, the next thing James knew, his companion was somewhere over at the other side of the room, pulling on his clothing. Raising himself up on his good arm as best he could, James decided not to question but to watch. It was, after all, a rather good show. 

The blonde made for the door. James frowned. 

“Wait, wait! Who _are_ you?” he called, as the fellow turned the door handle. 

The blonde turned, pulling on his well-tailored jacket, that now familiar smirk in place on his reddened lips. “006, James. Alec Trevelyan.” 

Well, that made sense. The save, the first aid, the confidence, the familiarity… Hell, even the tailoring of the jacket should’ve told him something. James almost laughed. Almost. They _had_ met before, back in London, for about three seconds in the corridor outside M’s office. Moneypenny had even introduced them. But somehow he’d just managed to forget all of that and sleep with his evaluator. 

“Oh.” He blamed what he was sure were strong painkillers for his substantial lack of eloquence.

“Yes, quite.” Trevelyan actually had the gall to chuckle. “I’d try not to mention the strip club and the bullet wound to M, Bond.” He opened the door. James just collapsed back on the bed with a resounding groan. 

“It’s really not all that bad, Bond.” 

“No?”

Trevelyan laughed. “I get the feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other,” he said.


End file.
